


We Can Hide The Bodies On The Ride Home

by geckoholic



Series: author's favorites [27]
Category: The Killing
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, mentions of canonical violent death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:16:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They're both aware that life isn't infinite and that the walls could come down at them at any moment, but when they're together neither of them cares.</em>
</p><p>Set directly post the S3 finale, and therefore likely to be jossed (veena'd?) all to hell come August.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Hide The Bodies On The Ride Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evewithanapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/gifts).



> Beta-read by smilla02 and write_light. Thank you both! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "She's My Ride Home" by Blue October.

Sarah's never been very good at predicting her own future, always too busy trying to steer through the present. 

Anticipating what's around the corner, thinking ahead – that's for the job. In her private life she lacks all foresight, likely to push through even when her gut tells her she's heading for a train wreck. 

Needless to say, that gets her into trouble. 

 

***

 

The sound of the shot rips through the night like a knife, tears something in half deep inside of her. At the same time it knits her back together: she can't remember the last time she felt so calm. 

The same can't be said for Holder, just a few feet away. He's not panicking either, but she feels his gaze on her even though she can't see him in the dark. She hears him mumbling her name – first, not last – under his breath, over and over again. It's like they switched places when the gun went off, like she's the one looking at the scene from afar and he's the one who still bears the impact of the shot, the weight of the gun in his hand. 

Some distant voice in Sarah's head calls her to action, reminds her that they've got to do something, come up with a story, prepare for the interviews that will surely be conducted later. She can't bring herself to care. She doesn't realize she's gone down into a crouch until her ass hits the wet soil, and that's when Holder seems to get over his initial shock. 

“No,” he says, pulling at her sleeve. “No, Linden, don't you zone out on me now. C'mon. Up. We gotta –“ 

He doesn't finish that sentence, probably doesn't know how, didn't think that far ahead, but he keeps tugging until she slowly rises to her feet. Then he stands next to her, patting her arm and staring at her, dumbfounded. She stares back. There are sirens in the distance. Time is running away. 

Finally, Holder runs a hand down his face, curses under his breath, and starts shoving her away from the car. “Self-defense, right? We'll say... We'll say you saw him reach behind himself or somethin'. Couldn't have known if he was going for another gun or knife or what the fuck ever.” 

Sarah nods, wants to point out that he doesn't have to lie for her – she did this and she can take the fall for it – but talking is too much of an effort. She zooms in on Holder, how he stands there staring, eyes flicking back and forth between her and the lifeless remains of a man she used to love, a man she just killed. 

 

***

 

Another thing Sarah doesn't do much of is reminiscing, mulling over the past. Sure, sometimes her brain runs into a trigger that drags past missteps back into focus, gets stuck on them for a while, but that's different. She doesn't have control over that. When it's her calling the shots, not the shadows threatening to overwhelm her ever so often, her gaze goes straight ahead. Bygones, spilled beans, whatever. She stands by her fuck-ups. 

 

***

 

No one arrests them on the spot, but they do get suspended for the duration of the investigation. The pair of them aren't the most acclaimed cops the department's got: the woman who went to the nuthouse twice and the ex-addict that just got pulled in by internal affairs. Sarah supposes she should be grateful they're given the benefit of the doubt at all. 

There are interrogations and examinations and then more interrogations. Together, apart. People she's worked with for years poking and prodding at their story from every angle, either not finding anything incriminating enough to keep them or willfully ignoring anything that could be. It's almost noon by the time they're sent home, and when they step out into the parking lot, she almost can't believe it's not in handcuffs. 

Holder eyes her car, but not like he's about to ask her for a ride. She knows that look. Any other time, it'd come with a cheeky grin, his unending amusement at their very own running gag, but now his face is pale and worn out and devoid of any emotion she can decipher. 

“Don't wanna go home,” he says. 

“Me neither,” she replies. Without her son around, there's nothing that she's drawn to. Sarah's used to living in transit, constantly on the move, never comfortable enough to rest and let go. For the last decade and a half, _home_ has translated to wherever Jack is, and that's not an option right now. 

Holder's looking at her with his eyebrows raised, like he's waiting for her to give them direction, tell him what to do. He should know her better by now, shouldn't he? She's no one's guide, blindly stumbling through the dark to find her own way. 

Then his expression morphs into a grin, still exhausted and not quite up to its usual beam, but genuine as far as she can parse it. “I've got an idea.” 

 

***

 

Sarah knows she's not an easy person to be around. She's closed off, stubborn, erratic. She bites people away. As a result, she's used to managing on her own. Company is nice, but so often too much work. She doesn't mind solitude. 

That doesn't mean she wants to be alone, but she can deal with it. 

 

***

 

He won't tell her where they're going, just tells her to turn left here, right there, makes her stop at a gas station along the way to bag them soda and pastries. They're headed to the outskirts of town, passing the industrial district, until he tells her to turn into a dirt road surrounded by half-dead trees and thinned-out shrubbery. Just when she sees a cliff emerge to her right, he tells her to stop and kill the engine. 

Nodding to himself, he bends into the backseat to get their soda and the food before he gets out, waits until she's made her way around the car before he leads her out onto a clear space near the edge of the cliff, giving them a good look over the city. It's nice, though it'd probably be even more impressive by night. 

Holder sits down on the bare grass, pats the ground next to him while he breaks into the pastries. As soon as she's sitting beside him he holds one out for her, waggling a bottle in the other hand, shrugging when she accepts the drink but not the food. 

“I'm sorry,” she says after she's emptied her soda in two long gulps, because the silence drives her insane and she needs to say _something_. 

His eyebrows go up; he's still chewing. “What for? Being right?” 

Sarah's got no doubt that he gets what she means and resents him for making her say it. She sits up straighter, takes in a breath of cold, fresh air. “No. I mean. For letting you lie for me, for dragging you into this mess with – ” 

“We're partners. You'd have done the same.” He falls silent for a long moment, then, averting his eyes. “At some point you gotta realize that you don't have to do everything alone.”

She doesn't know why, but Sarah's sure he's not just talking about yesterday, or the last few months, about work and running off on her own, quitting and coming back and all that happened in between. She remembers how he tried to kiss her; she remembers the speech he gave her at the prison. _You never stay ’cause if you did, then you’d want it. You’d need it. And then you could get hurt and left… or not left._

When she reaches out to make him look back up so that their eyes meet, her mind is carefully blank. She tries not to think about this. Thinking's never done her many favors. Instead, she watches him: how his eyes go wide when she angles his face up and bends forward, fall closed when they their lips first touch. It's a brief kiss, just testing the waters to see how it feels; she breaks away before it can become anything else. 

“Sarah,” he says, and her mind flashes back to how he chanted her name under his breath the other night, both of them standing over the body of the last man she allowed herself to love. She's on her feet in an instant, clutching the empty soda bottle so hard the plastic crackles. Panic rises in her chest. 

She bails. 

 

***

 

The way he loves is unlike anyone else she's ever been with: desperate and reckless, uncompromising and without restraint or safety nets. Like her, Holder doesn't do regret; once he made a decision he stands by it, come hell or high water. He needs her to a degree that's terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, while still managing not to smother or impose himself on her; his presence in her life is soothing rather than another ball she's got to juggle. 

He keeps her settled, in simple terms. It's what allows her to get a grip on that treacherous instinct to run and burn all bridges. He roots her in this thing they share. 

Maybe that's what _love_ is actually meant to be like. Maybe she had been doing it wrong all this time. 

 

***

 

He catches up with her a couple hours later, likely walked all the way back into town, not the type to make things easy on himself and call a cab. Sarah feels a twinge of guilt at that, but the way he looks at her when she opens the door washes it away. 

Neither of them says a word. She steps aside to let him in; he closes the door behind himself and stares at her expectantly. Whatever happens next, it's her decision. He's waiting for her cue, and she should tell him to go, wait for the call from the station at his place. She should take her way out and apologize for the kiss. Their score's settled, they can still go back to how they were before. 

But what does it matter, with the possibility of a murder charge hanging over her? All or nothing. If there ever was a time to jump into something she might never get a chance at otherwise, it's now. 

She pushes him back against the door, searching for his gaze to make sure they're on the same page, moves to undo his belt buckle when he gives a small, hurried nod. His whole body is rigid, hands pressed flat against the door, only his hips canted forward to give her access. It makes pushing down his pants and boxers that much easier, and she doesn't waste time. Sarah finds that she likes that he just lets her do this, on her terms, like she wants it. He doesn't move either when she steps away, gesturing for him to stay where he is while she slips into the bathroom to dig around for a condom. 

It's only when she's handed him the condom wrapper and gotten rid of her own pants and underwear that he seems to remember how to move. His right hand comes up to her face, cupping it. 

“Hey,” he says and leans in to kiss her, smiling in a way she's never seen on him, reverent and calm. She kisses back, idly noticing how his other hand comes to rest on her hip, steering her so he can reverse their positions until she's the one with her back resting against the hard wood of the door. He pulls her up a little to adjust the angle, and she shivers when he pushes in. He freezes, searching her face like he's looking for signs of pain or discomfort. Sarah shakes her head, moves against him to signal that it's fine, she's okay, no reason to stop.

They're going slow, height difference making this position awkward as hell until she lets him take some of her weight. There's no urgency in his movements. She wraps her legs around him, face falling forward into his shoulder, clings to his torso as he moves inside her. He's not having that, brings her head back up to look at him in a gesture not unlike the one she used earlier, on the cliff. His eyes are pinned to her face, like he's trying to memorize every single one of her reactions and that, more than any of the physical sensations, pushes her over the edge. He leans in to kiss her when he notices, finally speeding up his thrusts a little, fucking her through it. She tries to hide her face in his shoulder again, once she's done coming, but he still won't let her. He keeps watching her until his own orgasm has him bottoming out, eyes finally falling closed on a groan. 

After, he vanishes into the bathroom, presumably to get rid of the condom. Sarah uses the time it takes him to reemerge to find and pull on her pants, pick up a figurine that's fallen from a cupboard near the door, right a print that's hung next to it and they managed to knock off kilter. 

He lets himself fall down onto her sofa, drags at her hand so she'll join him. They sit there, side by side, her heart still racing, when her phone rings. It's one of the secretaries from the station, telling her that they're expected back there in an hour. 

“We're supposed to show up at the station,” she says when she's slid the phone closed and stashed it in her pocket. “An hour from now.” 

Holder entwines their fingers and grins, bright and obnoxious, when she rolls her eyes. “We're allowed to come in by ourselves? That's a good sign, right?”

 

***

 

The thing is, sometimes she thinks they can't be good for each other. They shouldn't be. And yet it's like they're custom-made for one another: the shattered pieces in him lining up perfectly with whatever's broken in her. They're both aware that life isn't infinite and that the walls could come down at them at any moment, but when they're together neither of them cares. It's why they ought to be disastrous as a couple, in theory, but it's also why they're working so well. 

Sarah never did make good life choices, keeps stitching together mistake after mistake, and chances are she won't ever be sure that this isn't just another part of the patchwork. She's not built that way. 

But for what it's worth, few of her mistakes ever felt so right while she made them.


End file.
